


Workin' Up An Appetite

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Light Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: “Because—Because I think you’ll like it, and I know I’ll like it, and my shoulders won’t get as tired,” he shrugs, but she can see hunger in his eyes when she pushes up a little.“Will you dress me before you take me to the hospital when I inevitably break my skull on the headboard?” she demands, eyebrow arching.“I will not let you break your skull on the headboard,” he responds, shadow of a smile on his lips.





	Workin' Up An Appetite

When he says it, she almost doesn’t hear over the sound of her own breathing because they’re mostly naked and he’s been stroking between her legs and sucking lazy kisses into her neck for roughly forever and _oh_ had just reached the most perfect spot, the spot that makes her feel a little weak.  But then _something a little different_ processes and she pulls back, hand on his chest to keep him from following, and she asks as casually as she can, “Different like toys or different like anal?  Because if it’s the second one, I just want you to know I admire your ambition, but that’s not happening tonight.”

His head tilts to one side and his eyes are steady on her face before, “Not that different.”

“Then what…”  He leans forward and breathes words against her ear and her thighs clench and she laughs, “What?  Why?” even as she pushes him onto his back.  He goes willingly, doesn’t answer immediately, so she busies herself with kissing his bare chest, teeth grazing over one nipple just shy of how she knows he likes it just to hear his gasp.

“Because—Because I think you’ll like it, and I know I’ll like it, and my shoulders won’t get as tired,” he shrugs, but she can see hunger in his eyes when she pushes up a little.

“Will you dress me before you take me to the hospital when I inevitably break my skull on the headboard?” she demands, eyebrow arching.

“I will not let you break your skull on the headboard,” he responds, shadow of a smile on his lips.

“You’re sure _you’ll_ like it?” she presses skeptically even as she’s shoving her panties off and coming up to kneel at his shoulder.  She feels hot everywhere his eyes trail, but, when his gaze reaches hers, he nods.  Biting the inside of her cheek, she says, “You know, this is sorta uncharted territory for me, which I hope you can appreciate doesn’t happen to me often—ever, at all, and I—”

“Wynonna, just sit on my face,” he sighs.

It sort of knocks the nervous fight out of her and she replies a little breathlessly, “Yes, _sir_ , Mister Deputy Marshal.”  His tongue swipes at his lower lip before he bites it and she shoves her hair back and prays, _Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t_ suffocate _him and please don’t fall_ , as she swings her leg over him and lets him lead her into the right position and she feels hot and giddy and Like a Virgin comes to mind and she stifles a weird nervous laugh she can’t explain.

But then his hands are on her thighs and he pulls her down to meet his lips, and she can’t _quite_ hold back the quiet moan that bubbles up.  The thing is—she’s had _good_ head in her day, but she’s _never_ met a guy like Dolls, the kind of guy who seems to really like it ( _he_ insists he likes it, she still says that sounds fake, but alright), and his tongue and lips move against her in a way that’s so good it’s almost upsetting, so good she thinks she might be drowning, might be swallowed up by it.  And this isn’t as bad as she thought it would be—she can roll her hips, breath hitching deliciously as he _lets her_ , and she steadies herself with a tight grip on the headboard.  When he moans, it vibrates through her and makes her gasp and wriggle just a little against his grip.  Unthinkingly, she twists, just a little, remembering suddenly and tantalizingly that his cock is back there, hard and neglected, but he shakes his head and hums a quick, muffled _uh-uh_ , and she whimpers as her brain does a quick litany of _fuck good yes goddamn_ —

“Fuck,” she whines, helpless to do anything but rock against him, chasing pleasure.  Her hands are back at the headboard, clenched so hard into the wood her fingers start to ache, but he sucks her clit just right and she cries out, doing her damnedest not to _actually_ crush him with the force of bearing down into him. 

 

She loses track a little, the laps and licks, sucks, whirls, and touches all sort of blur together in a mishmash of _yes_ and _good_ and _fuck_ and _more_ until all she can do is hang on and _moan_ and gasp and beg, and his hands may come up to her breasts, but it’s just pleasure on pleasure and she can’t _breathe_ with it.  Distantly, she hears a dull whack when she drops her head onto the wood in front of her, one hand falling to his scalp even as she squeezes her eyes closed.  She’s pretty sure she says _I’m—I’m gonna_ , but it devolves into a cry as her body goes taught, vision going white as his grasp on her keeps her from rising up, and it’s— _God_ , it’s so _good_ she doesn’t want it to _stop_.

But then it _doesn’t_ —he slows, tongue going languid and slow but no lighter, drawing shaky little whimpers out of her, teasing her, driving her _absolutely crazy_ because it sends hot, sugar-bright little shocks through her, makes her belly quake.  It’s too much after that orgasm, she can feel herself hitching with every move, over-sensitive and almost _aching_. 

She thinks she may actually _beg_ him to stop before he lets his head drop back, still holding her, and she’s shaking and trying so hard to stay upright, weak in muscles she didn’t even know she’d been using, but he’s got his hands on her hips, turns to kiss the inside of one thigh, then the other, and she lets out a shuddery breath.

When he lets her go, it’s all she can do to make sure she topples to her left into the bed and not, like, crush his windpipe with her pelvis, and she’s too loose and just _out_ to drag her leg off of him—she’s pretty sure she’s lost all ability to do _anything_ right now she just came her damn fucking _brains_ out, but she thinks her knee might be resting against his throat because he _really gingerly_ moves it until it’s draped across his chest.  Idly, unhurried, like he didn’t just ruin her _life_ , he strokes her calf. 

“I think I died,” she mumbles into the pillow.

“Take your time,” he smiles, just short of cocky, lips and chin wet, and she wishes she had the strength—or control over her own muscles—to kick him.

“I can’t believe you’re ruining every other man for me ever,” she groans. 

He sits up and presses a kiss to the inside of her knee before climbing over her, boxers tented over his cock and she can’t _believe_ she’s still too _fucked_ to do any more than kind of appreciate he kept his erection through all that (it’s an odd, kinda mean thought she shoves to the back of her mind, because Dolls is Dolls and other guys are other guys).  “Kinda the idea, you know?” he teases, nosing at her throat.

She knees him in the side, and he laughs, big and deep into her neck.  “Don’t be an ass, you just killed me with your _mouth_ ,” she scolds, softened by the kiss she brushes into his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, smooth and sweet, settling between her knees.

“What will you put on my tombstone?” she asks, wrapping her legs around his hips and drawing him even closer.

Very solemnly, he says, “Here lies Wynonna Earp—sister, mother, bad-ass demon killer, who went out doing what she loved.”

She shakes her head with a grin.  It’s really too… too close a moment, and they’ve been having so _many_ of those, but she doesn’t really know what to do with it, so she does what she does best—“So, are you gonna use that raging hard-on on me or…”

“Oh, so you’re good now?  Back from the dead?” he asks dryly.  Before she can answer, he sinks his teeth into her collarbone and she sucks in a sharp breath and clenches her thighs around him.  He kisses a line down to one nipple, lips and teeth drawing it into his mouth, and she huffs a low almost-whine.

“God, I’m glad you don’t have dragon teeth,” she mumbles thoughtlessly as her nails graze the back of his neck.

She feels his snort against her skin.  “I dunno,” he says, “You might like the dragon teeth.”

Humming, she shoves up onto her elbows when he pushes off of her to rifle through her nightstand.  “I mean—is that… is that an option?”  She tries to keep her voice more thoughtful than excited.  She fails, just a little.  He licks his lips and shrugs, so she drops limply back against the bed, idly rubbing her knee against his hip.  “You know you’re not supposed to open condoms with your teeth, right?” she teases against the excited thrum that thrills through her when he does exactly that.

When he stands, she whines just a little, but she’s quickly distracted—and mollified—when he just drags his boxers off, stiff cock caught on the elastic before bouncing up against his belly, and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth.  For what she’s _sure_ is purely for the sake of killing her (again, not five minutes after he _just_ killed her, rude), he wraps his hand around it a few times before taking his _goddamn sweet time_ rolling the condom on.  She would have thought at some point the way he _looks_ at her when he’s crawling between her knees would stop making her heart skip—it hasn’t, and she lets out a long, shaky breath.  His mouth crashes into hers and for a moment he’s just rubbing against her, head of his dick against her clit, parting the lips of her sex, slick and hot and not _enough_ , but it pulls a faltering little groan out of her.

Then he’s sliding into her and snaking his tongue into her mouth and she gasps, legs spreading as far as they can and nails digging into his shoulders, urging him closer until he’s flush against her.  She drinks in his low rumble, lets out a quiet noise when he rolls against her, slow and even as he kisses her dizzy, until she’s rocking up as much as she can against him.  But then he pulls back and his hips snap and she breaks the kiss to arch her back and moan so loud she thinks the _entire country_ can hear her.  Her brain may melt a little as he drives into her, hard, steadying himself on one hand to curl the other around her neck and draw her in for another kiss, open and messy and _perfect_.

Just when it’s almost too much, just when she’s about to come _embarrassingly quickly_ , he slows to an easy rock, and she’s not sure if that’s _better_ , but she can feel his shaking breath against her lips.  She can’t stop kissing him, quick hard pecks to his open mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and she feels his thumb against her cheek.  Unthinkingly, she turns her head into the touch, presses a quick kiss against his palm, and he sighs a soft laugh before pushing up a little, drawing one leg up until it’s draped over his shoulder and, _fuck_ , it’s a good thing he works her so hard during training because he damn near bends her in _half_ to nip at her jaw, the slow piston of his hips giving way to an almost rough buck, and somehow this is _better_ and she cries out, gripping the back of his neck and savoring his own moans of pleasure as his thrusts grow hard and erratic.

She’s so close, so achingly close, when her fingers find her clit—and for a period of time she can’t even _begin_ to calculate, it’s just him and her and the slap of skin on skin and the sweat beading on his brow and their combined moans—and she thinks he tenses at the same time as her, thinks it actually hits him at the same time, but she’s too busy keening and begging and it’s all too much and she can’t think _anything_ —

It’s a while before he stops moving, jerky and breath faltering and whispering her name as he lets her knee slide off his shoulder, and even longer before he pulls out of her, and she can’t help the little mewling noise she makes when he does.  His arms are shaking but he stays above her for a moment, forehead dropping to hers, and all she can do is try to catch her breath and stroke his sweat-slick back.

Too soon, though, he rolls onto his back with a groan, and they don’t speak, which is perfect because she doesn’t think she can form words just yet.  With more effort than she’s really prepared to admit, she twists until she’s on her side and pressed all against him, hand resting on his stomach as she measures his gasps, and it’s too hot until the sweat starts to cool.

She still personally feels shaky and hasn’t quite regained her ability to speak when he asks, “So, was I right?”

It takes her nearly a full minute to process what he’d asked and then she _laughs_.  “Yeah,” she whispers, voice a little rough as she nudges her lips to whatever patch of skin she can reach without moving too much.  “Yeah, you were right.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even remember if this was an actual prompt or if I was just talking to lunafeather about Dolls and oral sex and it led to face-riding and... then this happened. So shoutout to her for letting me torture her with this, she's the real MVP.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always!
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I'm always happy to talk about these nerds, cry about these nerds, or talk about these nerds having lots of hot sex, apparently. Throwback to when I thought I didn't write smut, I guess.


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